halloween

Is it possible to get Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from just a couple hours of feverish jack-o-lantern carving? I aim to find out. A study of one. Neither double-blind, nor peer-reviewed. Well, I suppose I could make the argument that this here blog post meets the “peer reviewed” requirement. So we are in this together, you and I.

Although, at the moment, I don’t see any pumpkin-carving implements in your hand. I wish I could say the same about myself. The dull throbbing in the forearm, near the elbow. The gnarled and clawed right hand akin to Dracula’s when casting a hypnotic spell. Telltale signs of Jack-o-Lantern-itus, a malady with which I alone, apparently, must contend.

Because my child is lazy. And so is yours.

In advance of my annual Haunted Halloween Backyard Party, I mean, my son Everett’s annual Haunted Halloween Backyard Party, I capitalized on a too-good-to-be-true pumpkin sale at my neighborhood Safeway. First there was the sorting out of the math with the cashier (you can’t really carry 10 pumpkins into the checkout aisle; just one and ring up its sticker 10 times). Then I moved on to the dripping of sweat in the parking lot, marking the path from the enormous cardboard bin to my Prius’ cargo bay. Fortunately, no one recognized me during this portion of my arduous endeavor. What with all the sweating, the grunting, the duck-walking, and some grumbled curse words–all while shuffling in front of a steady stream of motor vehicles–I probably will need to patronize a different Safeway for awhile.

But I got my pumpkins, didn’t I.

I then repeated the sweaty grunting duck walk from my garage to the backyard. Placed the oversized gourds on sturdy benches, surrounded by a motley (but sharp) collection of cutting and poking and sawing tools that were specifically designed in China for this very purpose: Carving pumpkins for Halloween. I allowed myself a momentary proud smile after all 10 pumpkins were set out on display. Then I shuffled into the bathroom to eat a half-dozen Advils–no easy task getting that childproof lock untwisted with hands spent from schlepping a couple hundred pounds of pumpkins around the neighborhood.

But this is a small price to pay. Because I knew that in a few short hours, I would be basking in the adulation of all the grateful 12 and 13 year-olds gleefully partaking in an age-old Halloween tradition. The boys would likely hoist me on their shoulders, parade around the neighborhood half-singing half-chanting some catchy little ditty from Fortnite but with words about me and my pumpkins. Magic.

But there was no magic. No basking in adulation. No gleeful partaking. No hoisting or parading or little ditty or words about me or about pumpkins. In the space of just one year, somehow the boys had effectively aged out of all of this. My wife wisely advised that I stay the hell away from the backyard. Other than grabbing a piece of pizza or two and being called upon to plug back in whatever plug the dog had tripped whilst being hazed by the boys mid-movie, I took her advice.

Because it was terrifying down there.

They blistered the air with swear words, trying (successfully) to impress each other with their robust vocabularies, gleaned from hours upon hours of watching older video gamers play video games on Twitch, I guess. Or maybe on Youtube, I don’t know. I thought I had blocked anything like that on my kid’s phone so that he could never be exposed to these words. Every content-restricting toggle is toggled. I am happy to explain to him years down the road, when he comes home during his Spring Break from college, the meaning of words like “shit” and “ass.” Sure, he’ll be little behind the curve. But I am a perfect parent; I can’t have my son’s mind polluted with that stuff at this tender age.

I must have missed a toggle somewhere, because Everett (the titular host of this Haunted Halloween Backyard Party) strung together a string of profanities for his buddies unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Standing in the dark near the pizza boxes, I froze. Then, I did what any right-thinking parent would do in this type of situation: I grabbed another piece of pizza–without making a sound–and snuck back upstairs–also without making a sound. I did not want to be discovered, interloping in the dark, and find myself the subject of the next string of profanities.

In light of what was going on back there, I had absolutely no business entertaining even a sliver of hope that my ten pumpkins would survive the night. I fully expected them to be smashed to bits all over the place. I had already constructed in my mind the heartfelt apology texts I would for sure need to deliver to my neighbors the next morning. They would be unhappy when they awoke to find catapulted and splintered gourds littering their own yards. Worse yet, as I sat on the couch upstairs with the other adults watching the World Series, I privately wondered whether the pumpkin-carving tools made in China would be (foreseeably) misused (on each other) by these boys made in America. I topped off my wine glass, hoping to bring to a halt the parade of horribles marching toward its logical conclusion in my head.

Eventually, the party wound down, the kids were picked up, and the pumpkins–miracle of miracles–were unharmed. Untouched, for the most part. It’s way easier to cartwheel around the yard screaming “bastard!” at the top of one’s lungs than it is to cut the top off of one’s pumpkin, apparently. I suspect I do indeed owe a neighbor or two a contrite email or two about a salty word overheard or two, but other than that, I suppose the party was a success. And now that the throbbing in my elbow has subsided, I see that I still have 6 more jack-o-lanterns that need slicing and dicing. After all, these pumpkins aren’t gonna carve themselves.

I have written before about this cast of characters. Friends who count 30-something years of shared memories. Beginning way back with fraternity hijinks committed and tolerated as 17 or 18 or 19 year-olds. Mostly run-of-the-mill stuff; but plenty not for public consumption. Oddly, most of those involved public consumption, as I think back. Now, more or less, grown men. With mortgages, high school-aged kids, lengthy professional careers of one sort or another. Family pets. Wives to whom we’ve been serendipitously hitched for 20-something years. And a penchant for scaring the bejesus out of one another on occasion.

This explains the mask. I know you have been wondering about that. I am the guy in the red devil mask. No, this photo is not evidence of some odd paganistic ritual. Well, maybe that’s not entirely true. No half-naked people circling midnight bonfires were injured in the making of this particular weekend, however. So back to the mask, because it is a curious thing. And I have been meaning to write this particular blog post for over a month.

You see, the 2nd gent from the left turned 50 back in December. He shares my own mother’s birthdate, which I have always found intriguing. He shared the altar with me on my wedding day 20 years ago. I stood there shakily, sweating profusely — from the ambient air temperature, not from the gravity of the moment. Maybe it was both. In any event, fair to say I’m woozy. Trying desperately to follow and repeat back the muffled words of the pastor before me. And while I’m mildly annoyed that my best man’s best efforts to stem my forehead faucet involve a fistful of fibrous hotel toilet paper, I’m grateful he’s there for me. My face is more or less covered with small, sweaty fragments of Charmin. Basically “TP’d” in front of a couple hundred friends and family members. But I am overwhelmed with gratitude for this man standing by me.

Now fast forward. On a similarly auspicious occasion in his own life some 20 years later — turning 50 years old — how do I repay him? Sure, I fly with another great friend from the west coast to the east coast, where Frank now lives. To surprise him. For most right-thinking people, that should suffice. Gratitude shown. The debt repaid. Leave it at that. But alas, right-thinking people rightly think that I am not one of them.

Exhibit A: The Satan mask. Most folks pack socks and undies in their overnighters. I stuff a terrifying rubber mask in mine — two of them actually — with every intention to deploy said mask during my trip. And not spontaneously, no. I’ve planned this out. Thought hard on it. I believe this is known as “malice aforethought.” Can’t you just see the group of right-thinking people shuffling slowly away from me, with sideways glances?

Exhibit B: During my Uber ride to the unsuspecting birthday boy’s east coast location, I scour my co-conspirator’s neighborhood via Google Earth. I push through mild car sickness in order to assess where a proper point of entry at my buddy’s Atlanta home might be so as to maximize the jumpscare factor. As I roll out of the car — my Uber driver Yolanda now giddy in cahoots — I confess that images of stealthy Seal Team 6 storming that Pakistani compound flit through my mind. I tiptoe down the pitch black driveway, quietly unhitch a backyard gate, and crawl. On my hands and knees. Peering through the devil mask’s eye slits. Breathing heavily like Michael Myers, I realize. As I secretly skitter across my buddy’s backyard deck and into his screened patio. At least I hope this is his deck and patio. I’ve never actually been here before, and am really really hoping I Google Earthed the right residence. I’m dressed all in black, with a blood red devil mask on, and shouldering what looks like a burglar’s kit. Crawling across someone’s redwood-planked deck. Late at night. What could possibly go wrong? The right-thinkers shuffle a little further away, now shielding their children’s eyes.

Exhibit C: My newly-50 friend has had back surgery very recently. His body is not as sturdy and unbreakable as it once seemed. He is, I think, still convalescing. Probably having to chew heavy back pills on occasion. So I don’t ignore this information. I do the cost-benefit calculation. Crunch the numbers. Do the math. I conclude that (a) this will be one of the all-time scare jobs, and (b) the odds of my causing Frank to wrench his back and pop his stitches and unfuse his fused vertebrae are astronomically low. My co-conspirators deliver our unwitting victim to the darkened back porch. A masked figure lurches out of the shadows. Frank stiffens and shudders a bit — the best scares often look like this, I have come to appreciate. And as far as I can tell or anyone will admit, no drawers were soiled. This is how I show my deep and genuine gratitude to one of my oldest and dearest friends?

My saving grace (I hope) lies in the poem I wrote and read aloud through tear-blurred eyes and with halting voice the following night in a room full of people who are also grateful for Frank. At the risk of embarrassing him a little bit, I’ve taking the liberty of pasting that poem below. Perhaps another ill-advised and ham-handed attempt to show him my gratitude. Admittedly not from the Right-Thinker’s Playbook. But it’s the best I can do. And if nothing else, it is straight from the heart. Happy birthday, Frank. I’m grateful.

It’s heeeere. Halloween Month. Round about mid-September, I start mentally zeroing in on the location of last year’s Halloween decorations cache. The previous November, it’s just “get this shit boxed up and downstairs ASAP before ours is the sole remaining cobwebbed front door on the block.” Thanksgiving and Christmas involves a similar routine; layers of holiday decorations boxed and rotated. Easter doesn’t really figure into the equation.

Come late Summer, after the Cape’s Great Whites, memories of apple cider, orange fallen leaves, and scaring the bejesus out of my childhood buddies move to the fore of my consciousness. The group texting banter picks up in earnest, each of us reminding the other of the time this one soiled his pants, the other one fell out of a tree, two of us locked eyes in a “this is it” moment while a haunted house actor gave chase with a buzzing chainsaw. The chainsaw had no chain. I think we knew that. But it didn’t matter.

These odd traditions slowly jog my recollection as to where in the dusty garage I might find the Halloween paraphernalia. The accumulated boxes grow each year. Of course we need those hanging ghouls with the blinking red eyeballs. Might as well grab a half-dozen styrofoam tomb stones. Strobe light? Is it green? Hell yes, throw that into the cart as well. Damn right we need a couple more bags of cobwebs. If the postman is able to penetrate the front gate to leave our junk mail, we just haven’t done our job. I half expect to find our man spun into a faux-silk cocoon, helpless, mouth open and pepper spray canister unsheathed and useless. That’s the goal at least.

I know this may sound completely over-the-top. My long-suffering wife would likely agree with that sentiment. Particularly in that awkward era between marriage and having kids old enough to appreciate Dad’s Madness this time of year every year. Sort of hard to justify setting up a terrifying porch with Jack O’Lantern heads balanced on scarecrow bodies, all triggered for jump scares, while my little ones sit idly by puckering on their pacifiers. Too young to appreciate my artistry. Possibly a little freaked out, even, that Daddy is wearing a short skirt, dangly earrings, and deep red lipstick. Isn’t that Mommy’s dress? Nothing that can’t be worked out down the line on a therapist’s couch, I tell myself.

One day, I hope, they will catch up with me.

Fast forward several years and a couple fistfuls of baby teeth. Earlier this week, I walked my 4th grader to the morning bus stop, passing by our tiny plot of bushes and bark chips that serves as a makeshift graveyard once a year. My little man paused and said, “Dad, isn’t it about time to get the fog machine out?” Indeed it is, Evie. Indeed it is.

Thanks for reading.

Follow Blog via Email

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.